


Toska

by stylex



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylex/pseuds/stylex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he imagined he could hear her still just when he was on the brink of sleep and couldn't separate dream from reality. Her face too, glimpsed at him from the passing faces in the crowd sometimes, but he had learnt to live with that. But when he began to forget the details of her face did he felt cheated. Memories became vague, summarized, and he soon forgot the shape of her mouth as she spoke his name, the quirk of eyebrow, the curve of her eyelashes. It was these thoughts, which sent him to sleep every night. The thought of his own fallible brain, unable to do as small a thing as remember her face, forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toska

The sky was lightening outside. I closed my eyes, wanting this night to never end; to go on forever. I heard the dull ‘thump’ of the newspaper falling in the front verandah, already the world was coming to life. In vain, I tried to check the time on the watch still tied to my wrist, I couldn’t see a thing. I sat up and located my specs; they were lying on the side stool. But I did not wear them and instead sat listening to the sounds of my mother getting up, opening the bathroom door, then closing it, opening it, the undistinguished conversation between her and my father. Then the sound of her, walking up the stairs on the pretext of going onto the terrace, and then finally the sound of the doorknob squeak as she opened my door. “Oh,” she said, clearly surprised to see me sitting up in bed at this early hour. “I was just going to the terrace. You’re up so early? Would you like some tea?” And then barely a second after I nod, she withdraws hastily and goes down (with much more noise than before) all plans of going to the terrace forgotten. She has been coming up to “go to the terrace” quite a lot these past many days, sometimes also in the middle of the night. This is the first time she has found me awake, or rather this is the first time she came to know I was awake. I look outside the window, trying to ignore the feeling that I knew exactly what my mother was reporting to my father downstairs right now. Predictably, my father’s concerned voice calls out my name, asking me to come and help him locate his car keys. Another very poor excuse, I think as I reply back in the affirmative, to get me out this room. For that is what my parents have been doing this past few days; checking up on me at all hours whenever I happen to be home. They’re afraid that I might do something stupid. I can’t blame them; I’ve come at the edge of and stopped myself, from doing anything stupid. I’ve not stepped out of the house since the past twelve days, and I think, absurdly, that the time that I have spent holed up in this room could hardly be twelve days, it seems like one long whole day to me. For a moment, I had a mad desire to refuse to come out of my room and retire back to bed, saying there was still time. But there isn’t, this is the thirteenth day.   
Years later, I would remember this day in terms of feelings. I don’t remember how I reached her house, whether my family came with me or whether I went by myself, I just remember suddenly being there surrounded by other people dressed in white. I remember the rest of the day in jolts of feelings: time and events were divided by feelings; the time when I felt numb when I saw her large photograph in the place where they used to have a drawing room: daris and mattresses lay on the floors now, all signs of any kind of furniture gone. I remember feeling as bare as the room. I remember feeling hot and bothered by the heat of the day as I helped in serving food to the whole swarm of relatives and people who had arrived. And then the feeling I remember most strongly: revulsion.   
I had been standing against a wall at the end of their long corridor which led to rooms further in the house. Behind me was the door of the room in which Nina’s mother had been made to lay in bed as exhaustion had made her collapse. And then a figure of a crying girl emerged from the room opposite from where I was standing. From across the hall, she saw me. Our eyes met for a moment and then I looked away, seething internally. The next moment, she was in front of me, crying more. Her face was blotchy, her eyes puffy. Silently, she took my hand in hers and patted it uncertainly. “I’m so sorry,” She said, tears streaming down her face. I opened my mouth to say something soothing, but nothing came out. After a moment, I walked away. Contrary to her past behavior, she did not follow me. I was glad to get away from her, keen to maintain a distance from the reason of all my sadness. 

***

my parents debated what to do with me. my college had closed for the summer, and I stopped setting foot out of the house. they tried to send me out to do chores, but when I refused they stopped asking. my younger brother tried to engage me in helping him with his school projects, but again, I refused. I stayed in my room all day, reading and re-reading The Fountainhead and listening to old cassettes. Then one day, I was told that I was to escort my grandmother to California, where my uncle lived. I remember my mother’s disapproving face and my father’s triumphant one, with his success to finally ask me to do something which I could not refuse. This plan successfully pushed me out of the house for the next two months at the end of which my grandmother was supposed to come back to India and I was to join my college. Except that it didn’t quite work out like that. It was May 29, 1989 when I boarded an Air India plane headed to California from where we had to go to San Bernardino, where my uncle lived with his family. But I returned eight years later, in 1996.

***  
My grandmother grumbled all the time about the windy weather, the too quiet neighborhood, and all the semi-clad people she saw when we went to Lake Arrowhead, a tourist place nearby. She couldn’t wait to go back whereas I on the other hand, was dreading the day when I would have to return. It was peaceful here. Nobody knew me, I knew nobody, there were no restraints, nobody was watching over me but sometimes from the way he used to inquire about what I did the whole day or whether I had “ a good, night long sleep”, my uncle made me think that he was giving frequent reports to my parents. But I didn’t care. My uncle and aunt ran a floristry and they soon engaged me in the shop. I would be at the shop the whole day fetching this or that from any corner of the store, helping my aunt bind flowers, (I learnt how to make a bouquet), receiving orders on phone, loading and un-loading boxes and boxes of flowers from the delivery vans. It was occupying work and I didn’t get any time to think. It was only at night when I used to lye in bed that I used to think of her. Used to remember how she walked, how her voice sounded over the phone, how it sounded when she whispered to me, how she used to look at me, how smooth her hair felt whenever I touched them, how her face smelt when we kissed…….  
And then one day, I took a train to Los Angeles with the two other grown-up sons of uncle’s friend, an outing which had been planned for my sake by my uncle. The younger one was about to graduate from the University of South California. During our weekend visit to the city, I visited the university too. The night I came back, I called home. It was my mother who picked up. When I told her about my decision, she asked me, in a surprisingly calm voice, if I was sure. I said I was, and she said she’ll tell papa about it. Then she enquired about my first year of college that I had already attended, and I replied that I wasn’t interested in studying chemistry anymore, I wanted to study architecture now. She didn’t say anything to that, but repeated that she’ll tell papa about it. The next morning my father called, demanding what the hell was I thinking, deciding to take admission into an American university on my own, without consulting them. I told him I wanted to study architecture now, not chemistry, and this would be a wasted opportunity if I came back. I had already called the university and discussed my chances; they’d said I could get a scholarship of 60 percent if I had got the grades I said I did. And I could work part-time to contribute to the rest. It won’t be that much of a financial strain, I had calculated if we could afford it and whether it was worth it. Fine, he grumbled at the end of it, I could do whatever I want. Then he said that he should’ve listened to my mother, and never had sent me away; “She suspected you might stay back and do something like this,” he said. I kept the phone down, wondering how my mother knew something about me before I did.  
And so, I took admission into Bachelors in Architecture. I was given a scholarship of 60 percent of the tuition fees. I moved out of my uncle’s house and into the college dorm assigned to me on campus. I had three other roommates. None of them was Indian, a fact over which my father worried, fearing I might fall into ‘bad company’. And though he wired me money every month I went and wrote my name down on the list of hopefuls looking for a job, preferably around campus, at the administrative office. Within a week, I got one: I was to join the line of helpers in a cafeteria run by Gus, a large beefy man with a Texan accent (which I came to realise only later) who ran the only all-girls cafeteria. Though it was an all girls canteen, most helpers were boys, a fact which no girl who came to eat there seemed to mind. My first task was to scrape the plates and wash them. And it was here; amongst other helpers that I met Kuljeet who’s otherwise called Kaul. He had an American accent when speaking in English, but it vanished when he talked in Hindi, or Punjabi. He was studying chemistry here and was senior to me by a year. On the very first day, he invited me over to his house, a place not far from campus. That weekend, he drove me down to his place where I was surprised to be greeted by his parents. I had expected him to be living by himself but, as it turned out, Kuljeet was extremely attached to his parents. He was friends with his father and they both played snooker together at the local pub. A setting hardly found in American scenario, but I, missing my own family, eagerly joined in, and his family accepted me with open arms. My life soon took the form of attending classes, washing dishes or chopping vegetables thrice a week, and visiting Kuljeet’s house almost every other week. I was his first ‘Indian’ friend, he told me one day, most of his other Indian friends were second-generation Americans with American accents and stuttering Punjabi. And even though I spoke no Punjabi at all, I’m great, he told me.   
Time passed. Sometimes I went to visit my uncle and my grandmother, who was still there because uncle had been putting off a visit to India. He too like my parents was pleased to know that I’d found an Indian friend. Mostly, even at weekends, we sat and talked at the shop, and I again took orders like before or fetched them things. In the evenings, after dinner, auntie packed rotis and sabzi in foil covered use-and-throw bags for me to take back with me. The next day, Kuljeet and I ate them together after heating them in the college cafeteria, in between classes. Though he was eating and talking to me, his eyes kept flying around and often, he would point out good looking girls to me. “Isn’t she hot, man?” He said. “Yeah,” I’d say, and go back to the food. Whenever I did that, he gave me a funny look.   
It was almost a year since I’d been there. I gave my annual exams. The results will be out after forty days and as I had nothing to do in the meantime, I decided to take up a job at the campus library. Most people left for the holidays and the library was mostly deserted. I was given the task of rounding up books which needed repairing and then filing them according to records. I worked six hours a day a week for which I was paid 10 dollars per hour. Weekends were off. But unlike the past, I did not visit my uncle or Kuldeep’s house but instead chose to stay on campus. I would stay in the whole day and just lie in bed, thinking or reading, all day. In the evenings I would go out and explore parts of the city I had never bothered to know. Like Chinatown, for example. I would take the train and go watch old classics in Chinatown in Los Angeles, the city which never stopped. If the movie was interesting, I would stay till its end otherwise I would walk out, have my dinner at a cheap Chinese restraunt, and take the train back to campus. One such time I walked out of the theatre (they were showing Casablanca), and was just roaming on road that a girl stopped me. She was wearing a long robe like dress apparently made from silk. And underneath, she wore jeans and sneakers. She had thin shoulder length hair, and she was wielding a guitar. She said her name was Scarlett and she was collecting money to visit Japan in the coming spring. Would I like to listen to a song from her and in return give her some money?  
I agreed and she began to sing, a Beatles’ song about a blackbird. She sang quite beautifully, with her eyes closed. In the dim street light, I could see only her face, the rest of her body was in shadows. She had big kohl rimmed eyes, and paper pale skin. When she was done, I gave her thirty bucks which seemed quite a good amount judging from her reaction. She thanked me, saying that people in this part of the city weren’t so kind. We shook hands, I complimented her on her voice and then left. Before I left she gave me a hand-written paper invitation to a concert which was to happen next Saturday, would I be interested? It would be a free concert, she added. I said I’ll try to come. 

***

Her name was Madeline, she said, passing me some pasta. I told her mine, and we shook hands, grinning like diplomats. “Welcome!” she said, dramatically flourishing her hand, “Welcome to my humble abode!” Other people, sitting all across the room yelled : “Salud!” “Salud!” yelled Scarlett, from the window ledge she was perched on.  
I was at her house, surrounded with strangers who all seemed to play one kind of music instrument or another. Though it was Scarlett’s place, the party was being hosted by Madeline, her elder sister by 43 seconds. Madeline and Scarlett were twins. Madeline was tall and curvy and hippie haired, Scarlett was tall too, but very lean with scraggy hair. They both had the same bright eyes. Madeline was a pianist and gave piano lessons to “spoilt brats of rich snobs” as she put it. Scarlett learnt Japanese at a language institute. “It all started with sushi,” she said. Madeline kept shuffling around, bringing dishes from the kitchen while Scarlett just sat next to me on the ledge, smoking a pipe. People of all kinds sat around us, adding to the chatter. There was no music player, but someone seemed to be playing a mouthorgan in the other room. A small piano sat in front of the fireplace for lack of space, blocking its mouth. The room opened into the hall and people spilled over, some even spreading to the other, hidden rooms. At once, people seemed to be arriving as well as leaving. I wondered if Madeline planned to feed all of them.  
Scarlett had a weird laugh. and she laughed at whatever I said. Later, I learnt that it was because what she was smoking in the pipe wasn’t tobacco. My ears ached from the loud voices, talking over each other, and I did not like the pasta Madeline had prepared. I couldn’t wait to go back home. ‘the concert’ had turned out to be a recital by different hopeful musicians hoping to make it big. Maybe because of the way I was dressed, a girl tried to chat me up. Scarlett intervened, laughing, “He’s not an agent in disguise, Pansy!” After awhile, I made some excuse and left. Madeline again shook hands with me, winking.  
Two days later, at six in the morning, Scarlett called me. What was I doing? Sleeping. How did you get my number? Asked a friend. I couldn’t think of anyone of the people I knew who could be the link to Scarlett. Later, she confessed that she had looked me up in the university directory. What was I doing in the evening? Evening, um, nothing. Would I like to watch a movie? What movie? How about Shall we Dansu? It was Japanese. Sure, why not. What time? When am I free? I’m free after 4. Great, then the 5’O clock show at the Regent Theatre. Don’t mind the place, but the hall always shows good movies.   
When I reached the Regent at 5, she was already standing there, eating candy floss. She was wearing a long loose robe again, this time in the color of ink. “Oops,” she said at my questioning look. “I forgot they don’t open today.” She mentioned another theatre not far from there, and I agreed. We walked till there, talking about the most random things and eating candy floss. When we reached the theatre, I saw that they were playing Lady Snowblood, another Japanese movie. But the last show had already started. We could watch any of the Hollywood movies, I said, inwardly trying to remember any. She said she didn’t like any of the latest movies. “Oh, what shall we do?!” she exclaimed, dramatically hiding her face in her hands.   
What we exactly did that day, I don’t remember. But I remember having fun. Scarlett turned out to be quite different from how she’d seemed at the concert. Though her laugh was similar to as I’d heard that day, this time she laughed at only the funny things. We didn’t stop to eat anywhere but just seemed to roam around, looking at things and talking. And then she had to go, she said, it was time for her to take her place at the pavement, where I’d met her that day, otherwise someone else will take it. I shook her hand as I was leaving, and she winked at me.   
The next time we met, was at a book fair. It was the Sunday right before university opened. My results had come out, I had passed. When I told this to Scarlett when she called, she said this was something to celebrate. My parents on the other hand, weren’t so thrilled with my performance. My father said that my uncle was complaining of neglect. I kept mum, thinking about Scarlett.  
The third time, I called her. “Oh good,” she said as she recognised my voice. “At last you’re calling me.” We went out again, but this time to a restaurant. She asked if she could suggest one. Predictably, it was a Japanese restaurant. I had no idea how Japanese cuisine might turn out to be, but I agreed. Luckily it wasn’t that bad. Apparently Scarlett used to go a lot to that restaurant. She greeted the owner with a first name basis and all the waiters paid extra attention to me. An old woman, and I guess she was the mother of the guy who owned the restaurant, stopped to chat with Scarlett and beamed a big smile at me as she left. Scarlett bringing a guy with her was a big deal, Scarlett later told me, because it had been a year since she had last dated.   
We had fun that time. Scarlett was quite weird in many ways but I still liked her a lot. The date would have dragged on but Scarlett had to leave to get her spot on the pavement again. Before we parted ways, she promised to call me before the week was out. And then it happened. She had been talking about planning another dinner like the one we had just had and the next moment, we were kissing. Though at the moment it didn’t hit me but later at night, I felt guilty. I tried ignoring it, but the feeling persisted.

*** 

When I told Kuldeep about Scarlett, he seemed visibly pleased and confessed that he had started to doubt my sexuality because of my apparent lack of interest in girls. I threw soap water in his face (I was doing the dishes in the canteen) and he ducked, laughing. The soap water went and fell into a bowl of soup waiting to be served. From the end of the lane behind the counter, Gus glared at us. Kuldeep raised a hand at him and took the bowl off the counter and gave it to me. I flushed its contents down the sink, still grinning sheepishly. 

*

“I’m quite close;” said she, while lighting up her pipe. “Two hundred more, and then comes Wonderland.”   
“How much d’you have already?”  
“8,” she said, and took a deep puff from the pipe.   
I was starting to get itchy, I couldn’t bear to sit next to her on the sofa while she got high. Why did she need to smoke so much, I asked.  
“Survival,” She said before taking another puff. I looked around, irritated. Just for the heck of doing something, I asked her for a glass of water. “Kitchen’s that way,” I got up, wondering why I agreed to her proposal of visiting her apartment. It wasn’t much of an apartment. It opened into a room which was some sort of a living room. Right now its floor was strewn with books and cigarette butts. The hallway had a kitchen and a bathroom by the looks of it, and another room which did not come in my line of sight. I asked her if she lived by herself. Since a year, yes. What happened before that? She had been living with her boyfriend. In the same apartment? Yes. How long had she been dating him? She laughed in response.   
By the time I came out, she had abandoned the pipe, though it was still smoking, and was staring at the ceiling. When she saw me, her face relaxed into a smile. “Oh you,” she said, pulling me by my arm. I landed with a flump beside her and she immediately leaned forward. “I’m named after Babalon, The Great Whore of Babalon!” She said, giggling. I said nothing, instead noticing her hands as they travelled over to my thighs. “And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials,” She said, dipping her head to kiss me. “and talked with me, saying unto me,” her hands were now on my shoulders, pushing me on my back. “Come hither, I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters………”   
She kept on speaking throughout. She took off my shoes, speaking; opened her pants, still speaking, and instead of leading me to her bedroom; she went and brought her comforter to the couch, still speaking. Later on she told me that in her early teenage she had been a very devout Christian and had read the bible many times. She also confessed that once she got drunk and tried to give a sermon to people on the street in the middle of the night.  
She said odd things through the night, and even after we were done she did not let me sleep and instead spoke intensely of snowflakes, and quantum mechanics. And then finally, when she was falling asleep in the early hours of morning, she whispered to me, “Are finders keepers?” When I said yes, she whispered again, “then I’m keeping you forever.” 

*

The next day, I woke up to the sound of a guitar.   
When I opened my eyes, I saw her sitting in the ottoman right opposite of the couch, playing the guitar.  
When she saw me, she stopped playing and smiled softly.   
I, on the other hand was filled with the most intense feeling of self-loathing. 

*


End file.
